Layers of Ice
by lineabean
Summary: He was a prodigy. She was a bookworm. Both were broken and hurt, but determined to make the best out of their life As Hans learns to love, and Elsa learns to take risks, reality threatens to recreate the layers of ice between them. The young love of 2 very different people will be put to the test as they face consequences that can haunt them for the rest of their lives. Helsa AU.


Chapter One:

There's something about snow, that makes everything look pure, clean, and happy. It covers the world in a blanket of white, occasionally glowing from the store lights shining below. Even the busy streets of New York City couldn't hide the charm of fresh snow one early winter morning. Little flakes drifted down from the sky, landing on the flowers outside the florist, the window pane on the bookstore, and on the headlights of cars quickly filling the streets. It was the kind of scene to be featured in a snow globe, or on a postcard.

Despite the snowy weather, the streets of Upper East Side was already crowded with people. Tourists were stepping out of their hotels, map and phone in hand. Cars filled the streets, filling the city with the sounds of rumbling engines and beeping horns. Mothers pushed their children on strollers, while others were out for a morning jog. And of course, there was an angry teenage boy.

He was out, calmly walking like the king of the world. The windy morning ruffled his auburn hair. Unlike most kids, he was out walking in the cold snowy weather with just an Armani suit, silk tie, and polished loafers. Heads turned towards him, but he ignored them. He was used to being stared at. Girls huddled together, whispering about him, but that wasn't anything new for him. He was aware, and very proud of, his good looks.

It was mid morning when the boy finally arrived atThe Morgenstern Bank. He would've arrived sooner, but his parents were in Europe, the chauffeur was taking a holiday break, his sister was out busy today, and after great trouble this morning, he couldn't get his car to start. Plus, he didn't want to take any public transportation. Like his father always told him, it's best not to mingle with commoners.

The pushed open the swinging glass door and stepped into the quiet lobby. It was a vast, empty room with reflective white tiles and a gurgling fountain in the secretary looked up from her stack of papers, and frowned. All she ever did was frown.

"Hans Westerguard, you are 49 minutes late. We've been waiting all morning to speak to you," she said, her pale gray eyes analyzing every move of his, like he was a criminal and she was police.

"Well then, it's a good thing there weren't any cars coming my way when I crossed the road, or I would've been 51 minutes late," he responded, slightly annoyed.

"I do not have time to deal with your attitude today. Not everyone appreciate it. Now I'll tell Mr. Beaufort you've arrived, and you better hurry up. He's not in a good mood either."

From the outside, the building he works at is called "Morgenstern Banks." The few people who ever entered the building would claim that it resembled a bank in every possible way. However, on the 32nd floor, there is an office labeled "Analysis Room." Inside, Mr. Beaufort sits, analyzing statistics. Not economic stats, but crime stats. The bank was actually the headquarters of an espionage organization known as The MB.

Hans entered Mr. Beaufort's room, or as he preferred to call him, Mr. B. Like usual, there was nothing in there except a desk, some papers, a computer, and a few chairs. He had no decorations or photos. Sometimes, Hans wondered if he had a family, or even a personality.

"So, it looks like you've finally decided to show up." Mr. B said, while twirling his gray mustache. He shifted his gaze between him and his computer screen.

He sat down, and shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Hans never felt weak, or inferior when compared to others including adults, but something about Mr. B radiated power and control. He had deep, cold eyes and a long, jagged scar that ran from his left eye down to his chin. Though he would never admit it out loud, that power made him slightly nervous each time he spoke to him.

After serving in the Vietnam War, he joined the CIA and though there wasn't much information released, he knew that Agent Beaufort was one of the most accomplished spies in the business. After a mysterious and tragic accident, he lost both of his legs, and retired to New York, where he was invited to lead The MB after the old director quit.

"Hans, you are one of the most talented and youngest recruits we've ever had. Your parents and your parent's parents and your family before that were all involved in The MB. We invest our effort, our time, even our money on you because we trust you to fulfill your responsibilities, but you cant even show up on time? Forget it. I'm not going to let you complete this assignment. We have so many other agents. Its not like you're the only one."

He tossed the files on the floor and sighed. "You do not set your own rules. We do." his voice became louder and louder as he continued to speak. "We need someone to carry on the legacy and honor of The MB espionage association, and if you can't be responsible enough to do so, then you don't have to work for us anymore. Do you understand?" His loud voice echoed in the lonely room.

"Yes sir, I do. I'm sorry that I couldn't make it on time."

There was a long silence before Mr. B continued, more calmly this time. "I'll have another agent do that job, but don't worry, I saved a task for you. Well, it was for someone else, but I think I'll give you this one for now. I heard school keeps you busy?"

Mr. B was a puzzle Hans could not solve. He knew he was the top of his class, and was taking online college courses to keep him busy since school was a joke. "Well, sometimes."

"That's good. Public safety is important, but so is education.." he trailed off, a deep sadness replacing his voice. _What does he mean by that?_ Hans thought. Sometimes, Mr. B's rapid mood changes really annoyed him.

Then, he snapped out of it. "Okay anyways, here's your file containing all the basic information you'll need to know. It's a simple task, really. All we need you to do is to take out the guy responsible for all the recent art thefts going on. You heard about the news right? Missing paintings from the Met? It's quite an easy task. I would like this finished two weeks from now. Not two weeks and 49 minutes, alright?"

Hans nodded, but inside he felt annoyance and anger, slowly starting to mix into a volcano, near eruption. He was demoted down to an easy task, like all the years of work and sweat and near death moments were all forgotten about all because he failed to show up on time.

As he was leaving the room, Mr. Beaufort called out his name, and spoke as if he knew just how he felt. "Hans, don't be too disappointed. Junior year is rough, and I need you to dedicate your time to education."

"Sir, you know I do."

"Well, you remind me of myself when I was younger. I was the top recruit in The MB back in the days, and I spent so much time working, I fell apart in school and that put me at a great disadvantage that haunted me years after graduation. And some other things happened and..." He stopped, then cleared this throat, "Goodbye."

Mr. Beaufort was a puzzle that Hans could not solve.

Hans kept his cool until he went outside. Then he walked down the sidewalk angry, and lost in thought. He couldn't remember a time when he was this angry. All of his work, all of his time, since he was 12, was spent with The MB. After 2 years of training, he was finally qualified for field work, and at 14, he was the youngest agent ever. At 15, he saved all of New York and parts of Boston from a group of international terrorists that nearly killed the entire city. And now a year later, they wanted him to just stop a petty little art thief from spoiling himself Rembrandt and Monet? Clearly, Mr. B hadn't thought this through.

_Oh well, get over it. Just finish this task by tomorrow so you can move on from such a ridiculous assignment. _

And then there was the whole "education is important" spiel he went on. As he tried to form words of protest in his mind, he couldn't find a way to disagree with him. And, he didn't know enough of Mr. B's past to understand all of that message. Nobody knew of "Mr. B" before the Vietnam War. It was like he never existed before then.

As much as he wanted to hate on his ridiculous task, he decided to hold his tongue. _Sure, Mr. B might have his reasons for this arrangement, but he is still the leader, and maybe he had some horrible childhood where he was too poor to afford education. Maybe he was one of those commoners I'm roaming the streets with right now. _He decided it was best not to complain. Well not out loud, at least. He was still ranting in his head.

Now when two people meet, there are different types of meetings. Some people, like Hans, prefers to have every meeting, every discussion, every social interaction and every phone called planned out. Other times, a plan is not necessary. Two people just happen to be at the same place during the same time. Some people call it fate, some people call it destiny, and others, like Hans, calls it bad luck. But its not like Hans believed in luck anyways. It was just the simplest explanation for the most unpleasant moments that he preferred not to think too much on.

While a well dressed and angry boy was mindlessly walking down the sidewalk, a small, scrawny girl was clutching a stack of books as she exited Crawford Doyle Booksellers. Hans, unaware of her presence, bumped straight into her, knocking both of them off of their feet, and they fell on the cold, snowy sidewalk.

His first thought was: _Now I have ice all over my butt. How convenient_. Then he thought for a moment: _Who ran into me?_

He immediately got up, and brushed the ice and snow off of his jacket. Then he looked down, and saw a girl, dressed in worn jeans and a black jacket, getting out of the pile of snow she fell on. Her white blonde hair was messily braided down her back, but several strands of hair hung loose in front of her pale face. When she looked up at him, he noticed her captivating icy blue eyes, and it sent a chill down his spine.

"I'm sorry. Let me assist you in picking up some of your dropped books," Hans said, shocking himself. All his life, his father and mother told him that he was better than other, if not the best. Nobody, not even his teachers, dared to cross him because he was terrifyingly unpredictable. He never assisted anyone, not unless there was some aspect that would positively benefit himself. So when he bent down to pick up her books, he did so carefully. After all, this was his first time helping a commoner.

Also, this was the first time he apologized to someone when it wasn't his fault. It was the girl who ran into him. She should've avoided him when she saw him coming.

He picked up each and every book, dusting the snow off of them. He handed them to her, and when she grabbed them, their cold fingers brushed, and he felt something strange, something new. A spark, a shock, jolted him, and he was sure she felt it too. She looked up, her piercing blue eyes looking into his emerald green ones. A rosy blush filled her colorless cheeks and the corners of her mouth turned upwards in a mysterious half smile. And he felt the corner of his lips turn upwards, like some strange force in the universe was gently pushing his mouth into a smile.

And the spark that passed between them ignited into a fire inside of him, and he felt a sudden warmth envelop his body, like a blanket covered his chilled bones. The fire circulated through his veins, arteries and the capillaries in between. His heart pumped it so all of his body felt pleasantly warm with this strange sensation and he wanted to wrap his fingers around hers to see if she felt it too. But he didn't, and he stood there, frozen in the moment, with a ridiculous half smile on his face.

And at that moment, he wanted to tell her that he was a very big fan of Tolstoy's writings as well. He wanted to tell her he also enjoyed reading. He wanted to tell her that he visited Crawford and Doyle Booksellers too. But instead, the words were stuck in his throat, and he couldn't find a way to express himself. So for a moment, they just stood there, trapped in the pleasant silence that hung between the two of them. His hands and hers both were clutching the book, both of them refusing to be the first to let go.

A burst of icy water splashed his leg as a motorcyclist sped past them. It slapped him awake from the dream like state he was in, and he dropped his hand from the book, then looked down at his leg. _What am I doing? This is ridiculous. There is no reason to be here anymore. I must leave, and analyze the files-the files! Where are they?_

Just as he was wondering where his files went, she spoke to him, her voice timid yet firm, cutting through the silence like a thin layer of ice. "T-This belongs to you."

She handed him his snow covered, slightly dirty files, and he grabbed it, carefully avoiding her slender fingers this time. He gave her one final look, then spoke loud and clear. "Next time, watch where you're going. Not everyone appreciates slipping on snow."

If he would've turned around, he would've seen her shaking in the cold, hair falling in her face as she tried to hide from embarrassment. But he didn't, and he walked away without looking back. As much as he tried to forget that awkward situation, it kept replaying over and over in his head. _She had it coming, she deserved to be criticized for her clumsy actions_, he thought, but deep down inside, he regretted snapping at her. He wished he could take back his words.

_Stop. This is ridiculous_. He pushed her face out of his mind, and focused on the contents of the file. But each time he closed his eyes, he saw her big, round eyes on her pale, colorless face. He saw her mysterious smile and her glistening pale hair.

He marched into his house and slammed the door. Sinking into the nearest leather couch, he sighed._ I should have asked for her number._


End file.
